


Soon, He Will

by BadLightning (221BFakerStreet)



Series: One More Time With Feeling [1]
Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Abuse, Age Difference, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst with a Happy Ending, Child Abuse, Credence Barebone Gets a Hug, Credence Barebone Needs a Hug, Credence is 16, Did I tag this enough?, He's going to live with Graves forever now, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mary Lou Barebone is Her Own Warning, Not even a little bit edited, Pre-Slash, Protective Original Percival Graves, Still 1920s, The start of something beautiful, no magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-02
Updated: 2017-05-02
Packaged: 2018-10-26 17:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10791807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221BFakerStreet/pseuds/BadLightning
Summary: Sometimes Credence closes his eyes, and he imagines the ceiling of his very small bedroom is covered in angels. They bloom out of the deep black abyss of his ceiling, their wings spreading like wet paint, fiery and strong and so, so bright.





	Soon, He Will

**Author's Note:**

> I listened to 'Eet' and 'Blue Lips' by Regina Spektor while writing the entirety of this. My Gradence feels were too strong to be kept inside, and I had to get in on the action here.
> 
> This is not even a little bit edited, so if you notice anything hinky, feel free to let me know.

Credence thinks about the Sistine Chapel. He has never seen pictures, but he has heard of it. Ma would think it a sin, to know it even crossed his mind. But he keeps it tucked away neatly in the folds of his heart, only to be taken out in the darkness of his bedroom at night.

Sometimes he closes his eyes, and he imagines the ceiling of his very small bedroom is covered in angels. They bloom out of the deep black abyss of his ceiling, their wings spreading like wet paint, fiery and strong and so, _so_ bright. He dare not reach out to touch them, though he wants to. Even in these quiet moments, when the scars stretch his skin and the ache of new wounds bleeds like spilled tea into the remnants of old ones, he knows it is not a comfort he deserves.

He is broken, his Ma tells him, and the truth of it weighs him down. The images fade until he can sleep, the hope in his heart at the echoes of ‘maybe’ more painful, even, than the realization of ‘never’.

And yet…

•••

From far away, he sees the man. He imagines that the crowds part for him out of fear, because that is all that Credence knows. He shrinks in upon himself as the man gets closer, and then stutters to a halt just down the block. The pamphlet in his hand shakes minutely as he holds it out in front of him like a shield. The man is dressed impeccably, a fine suit jacket lined in red peeking out from beneath a black wool coat. There is the barest hint of a scrape on the man’s left cheekbone, his face locked in a grimace. Credence wonders if it is from pain, or from anger, and he wonders what the man will do, if he will move past him with purpose as so many others have. Credence wonders what he _wants_ the man to do.

The pamphlet slips from his fingers as the man takes it, surprisingly gentle. Credence tries not to stoop more, or shrink back, but his body betrays him. It always does. The man’s gaze drifts purposefully over the paper, and then back up to look Credence right in the eye. It is a gaze from which he cannot look away, surprising at once in both its intensity and tenderness. Like Credence is a wild animal that should not be frightened away. In this moment, he thinks he just might be.

“Thank you,” the man says, one corner of his mouth turning up gently. He looks Credence over again, and the boy feels stripped bare from it.

The man is gone again before he gets a chance to repeat his rehearsed lines, the ones Mary Lou has spent years feeding to him at the end of his own belt.

He goes to bed that night, hands stinging, and tries not to let his heart clog his throat.

•••

Mr. Graves finally introduces himself after two more days of this. It is the same pamphlet that Credence hands him each day, and each day he is thanked for it. He wonders what the older man is doing with all these pamphlets, if he’s secretly using them for kindling or tossing them in the gutter the next block down. A voice at the back of his skull tells him to be weary, warns him of some nebulous sin that he can’t quite name. Why would a man of his stature show interest in a useless pest like Credence?

But there it is again, the gentleness he’d seen the first time they met. Mr. Graves removes the pamphlet from his fingers, only this time his gloved hands wrap delicately around Credence’s knuckles, holding his palm up so that he can see the angry red cuts, purposeful in their cruelty.

Credence pulls away almost instantly, his hand finding purchase in his threadbare pocket, as his other clutches harshly at the stack of papers he still holds.

“I’m sorry,” the man says, voice on the edge of anger or frustration, and Credence steps back. And then it comes again, quieter this time, softer, “I’m sorry, my boy.”

Something inside of Credence cracks open, spills like the inside of an egg. His gasping cry is swallowed by the noise of the street, and he lets Mr. Graves pull him to the mouth of an alley, and then deeper still. The world constricts in size with every breath, narrowing to the brown stained brick of the alleyway walls. He wraps his arms around himself, the propaganda of his mother dropped somewhere along the way.

“Credence.” The voice is concrete, and it tugs at him. There are hands on his shoulders, fingers loose. He could escape if he wanted to. He looks up.

The look of concern on Mr. Graves face is so alien to him, and he does not know what to make of it. A thumb sweeps a tear from his cheek, the warmth of the older man’s hand suddenly penetrating the numbness that surrounds Credence. He doesn’t care what the man wants in that moment, he thinks, he will give it to him freely if only he will stay like this with his hand cupping his cheek like he is holding something precious.

The questions will come, Credence knows, and he will answer them when they do.

•••

Mary Lou Barebone’s eyes are cold in the dim light of the kitchen when Credence walks inside that evening, still holding a good portion of fliers. His hands tremble, though he tries his very best to still them.

“What is this?” Her voice is like a cold knife in his gut, but he knows better than to answer her; any answer he gives will make it worse. He thinks, then, of the small bridge he must walk over to get back home. Thinks of how he might’ve simply scattered these cursed papers over the water below, and been done with it. But he thinks, also, of Mary Lou’s knowing gaze, always judging, assessing. He will always be found wanting.

Laying the pamphlets on the table, he silently undoes his belt, folding it over and placing it in his Ma’s open hand. The lashes land on his back this time, harsher than normal. It’s as if she knows, as if she can somehow see the wrongness that stains his skin like tar. Credence tries not to cry out, bites his lip until he tastes the copper of his own blood, and it is so strangely familiar to him. The truth is that he does not know, anymore, who this sin belongs to, whether it is even real.

That night, he does not see his angels. His back aches and burns until he passes out from the pain. But he wakes with the ghost of a face in his mind’s eye, and a fluttering hope that settles somewhere inside his ribcage.

•••

The next time they meet, Credence is shaking from the cold, sweat matting his bangs to his forehead, and making the angry air that bites at his skin that much colder. He tugs the sleeves of his too-short coat down his forearms, where they will surely slip back up in the next moment, but it gives his hands something to do that isn’t tightly clutching religious pamphlets that nobody wants to take.

Mr. Graves smiles in that cautious way he has, turning slowly into a frown as he notices the state that Credence is in. And Credence feels unworthy, as though he has disappointed the man somehow.

“I’m s-sorry,” he says, turning to look up at the man.

“Whatever for, my boy?” Graves’ naked hand comes up to press against his forehead, and Credence leans into it. The man’s skin feels cool and he smells like freshly washed laundry, and he almost misses the hushed, “You’re burning up.”

The world pitches and fades, and a pair of strong arms sweep him up and away.

•••

The next moment that Credence is really aware of anything, he is settled into a couch, a blanket tucked in around him. The panic almost seizes him until Mr. Graves’ face comes into view, silently absorbed in his reading. He takes a moment to look around him, discovering a room covered in faded red and gold wallpaper. There are bookshelves lining the walls, and a desk he can see over the far arm of the couch that has a shining typewriter set to one corner.

“You’re awake,” the deep gravel voice startles him a bit, though when he looks over, Graves is smiling at him.

“Mr. Graves…” His own voice is more of a croak, and he tries to clear his throat, turning to cough into his closed fist. Soon a cold glass is pressed into his hand, and when he can breathe again, he drinks the water down. Only afterward does he remember the feel of a calloused hand against the back of his neck, and blushes so intensely he fears that he may faint again.

“Call me Percival,” the man says. Credence blinks up at him. He mouths the word before he gives voice to it, rolling it around on his tongue and through his teeth, savoring.

“Percival… thank you,” he says, and is proud of the way that he does not stutter.

When Percival smiles at him, Credence feels the flutter once more, a whole chorus of beating wings where his heart should be. And he does not know if he can smile back yet, but he knows that soon, he will.

**Author's Note:**

> I got a tumblr specifically for fanfic stuff. Follow me there for random shit:
> 
> http://221bfakerstreet.tumblr.com/


End file.
